


Working Vacation: The Meyerling Files

by DeathlySilent13



Category: No Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-25 01:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12025188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathlySilent13/pseuds/DeathlySilent13
Summary: F.B.I. Special Agent Meyerling has been forcibly encouraged to take a vacation, and attends a college conference to pass the time. But what happens when a vacation suddenly carries the weight of several lives?





	1. A Simple Conference

**Author's Note:**

> This work is not part of any known fandom. But it ended up being fascinating to write, and I am hoping that it will be equally fun to read. Comments, questions, and suggestions are always encouraged. I welcome constructive criticism, as it can make me a better writer, but please don't just bash the work. I don't claim or pretend to be anything close to a professional, after all.

I took a deep breath as the crowd was called to silence. The director of the college’s psychology department, Margaret Winningkoff, was a commanding presence. When silence fell, she spent several minutes crowing about the accomplishments of the department and their ongoing research into the effects of gang violence on prepubescent children. Just when I wondered whether I had been forgotten, Dr. Winningkoff paused and cleared her throat.

“We have been very fortunate this year. Our guest today is visiting us from the F.B.I.’s Behavioral Analysis Unit to discuss the benefits of psychology to catch criminal offenders. I present to you Special Agent Arista Meyerling!”

I stepped onto the stage as applause broke out across the packed auditorium. I kept a smile on my face, careful not to let my nerves show as I shook Dr. Winningkoff’s hand before stepping up to the podium. I found that I did not need to adjust the microphone mounted there, and allowed amusement to flit across my face very briefly. I knew how to work a crowd, and how to appear far more confident than I felt.

“Good afternoon to you all,” I began. “Thank you for coming. Several of my esteemed colleagues did not believe there would be such a positive turn-out.”

I gestured to the three people to my right, standing just off the stage. Several snickers floated up from the crowd at the blatant jibe, loosening tensions within the audience. I smiled ever so slightly in victory; knowing the hardest part was over and that I had the audience’s attention now. While they sat, amused, I habitually skimmed the crowed, looking for anything out of place among the sea of faces staring at me. Only one stood out, his back to the wall. It was his posture that gave him away. He did not look at ease, did not appear to be enjoying the promise of knowledge that had drawn so many. His attention was focused on the people to his right, as though he did not know I had spoken.

I smiled, letting my eyes rove slowly across the room as I began my well-rehearsed speech. I always started these presentations by recounting the profiles put together for famous killers, like Ted Bundy and Charles Manson. Everyone knew them and there was always a disturbingly loyal fan base for them and the facts of their kills. I used these famous names to lead into the fact that these killers, like so many, had been neighbors and sons and brothers and husbands. It wasn’t always the scary ones that did horrible things. I recounted a closed case that we had only recently released to the public about a Catholic Pastor who had killed seventeen children under the age of fourteen. He had been a friend and confidant and role model. But he had also been a killer. I watched shock and horror cross many faces, some unable to believe such a thing, others disgusted by the fact that it had happened. So many people underestimated the darkness inherent within the human mind, the flaw that turned these individuals into heartless sadists.

I spoke to all but my attention was focused on one. He had not moved. There was no reaction from him over anything I said. This time, I noticed the nearly imperceptible bulge at his hip and my heart raced. His piercing green eyes roved over a particular section of seats, then around the room to linger on each exit. He was planning to either escape fast or block escape. Neither idea boded well. I finished my presentation and opened the floor to questions. Several hands shot up, and the first question asked was whether or not I had ever shot someone. I sighed inwardly, seeing almost a dozen hands go down, each of them clearly with the same question on their minds.

“Yes. I have had to fire my weapon several times. And before you ask, yes we are trained to shoot to kill, just as police officers are.” I replied, my voice giving them none of the enthusiasm with taking life that was so often expected.

There were murmurs through the auditorium, and those piercing green eyes flitted briefly to me, as if only just realizing I was there. Another hand shot up, directing my attention away from the man at the back. A microphone was passed, and questions were fired at me about the hiring process, minimum requirements, and experience. I answered them all, though I carefully omitted the finer details that allowed the Bureau to weed out those ill-fitted for the work. Several questions were thrown, and I answered them all, as I had so many times before. Finally I halted the session once the audience had begun repeating itself, and handed the spotlight back to Dr. Winningkoff, stepping down and skirting the edge of the room to reach the doors before the swarm of people. Though my body and posture all reflected relaxation, my eyes flitted around the room, looking for one figure among hundreds.


	2. Chapter 2

My attention focused once more on the man that I had noticed earlier. He had begun moving, his grace uncanny. I had seen men move that way before, though they were all veterans currently working SWAT. My apprehension grew. I maneuvered through the crowds, clearing the double doors just in time to see him follow a weasel of a man down a side hallway. Skirting a pillar to slip around the crowd’s line of sight, I followed, taking a side hallway around. I held myself at the junction, holding my breath as the grimy man swept past me, the smell of body odor evident even without inhaling. I stepped into the middle of the hall just as the man rounded the corner. He caught sight of me and stopped, scant inches between us. I was impressed; it took discipline and hard training to react so quickly. Most would have plowed straight into me.

“Can I help you find something?” I asked him, earning a cold glare.

“I need to move before he escapes,” he said, his voice soft and completely devoid of emotion.

A rustle of cheap fabric behind me warned me that this man’s target hadn’t walked away. “I knew I’ve seen you before! You’re following me!” he accused, spitting onto the carpet in front of our shoes before turning and running away.

I did not budge, and the man’s fists curled at his sides as anger flashed in his eyes.

“You should have stayed out of it,” he said in the same dangerous tone.

I did not flinch, though my hand strayed to my waist and the Glock holstered there. It wasn’t my favorite handgun, but it was the one I was required to carry with my badge. His hands relaxed, and twitched to where I knew his gun was tucked. “Don’t even try it,” I whispered, mindful of the milling students mere yards from where we stood.

“That man is suspected of raping a dozen girls between the ages of nine and fourteen,” he practically hissed.

I merely looked at him, unwilling to budge. I had no reason to listen to anything he said.

“My name is Miles Foster. I am a private investigator hired by the fifth victim’s family to find enough evidence to get the authorities involved.” He pulled his wallet out, moving slowly and deliberately since my hand remained on my gun.

I glanced down at his credentials; all P.I.s were required to carry them at all times. I barely glanced at the name, only to make sure it matched what he had given me. It was the watermark that I looked for, and the discoloration within the security strip confirmed that this was legitimate. Most forgeries had the strip, but fakes used only one color while the real deal contained two nearly indiscernible shades. I sighed, dropping my hand down to my side.

“What proof do you have?” I asked him. “A slimy cretin like that would be noticed at parks or schools. He’s memorable. Why haven’t the police heard anything suspicious?”

One corner of his mouth twitched as I spoke, as though amused by my observations. “I’m trying to figure that out,” was his grudging reply. “Each of the victims was drugged, ensuring faulty memories from all of them. None can tell me anything more than the name that stuck with them all: Seymour Leviatan. It really is his name, and I don’t know where they would have heard it. He doesn’t talk in the third person.” He paused and scanned behind me, again displaying a habit not often seen among civilians.

I thought back over the man, wondering if I could get rid of that odd note in his voice that suggested he was humoring me instead of imparting information to a potential ally.  
“He reeked,” I murmured softly, earning an exasperated nod from him, which I fully intended to turn back on him. “You should focus on finding the woman.” I gave him a self-satisfied smile as he stared at me, disbelieving. “He may have smelled, but his outfit was color coordinated. The shirt under his black blazer matched the beige pinstripe in the slacks. The belt and shoes were both brown leather. No man intentionally ties every aspect of an outfit together like that.”

He blinked twice, clearly dumbfounded. He regained control easily, leaving me with the impression that few people ever got the better of him intellectually as well as physically. The realization made me smile. He reached for his wallet, removing a simple white business card and handing it to me. ‘Miles Foster, P.I.’ was printed in black serif, and a single phone number was listed underneath.

“My cell. I work out of a second story corner office on Third Street, just north of Broadway.” He cleared his throat, clearly at odds with the position my observations put him in, and turned to walk back the way he had come without another word.


End file.
